‘My goodness, you’re tall!’ he said while reaching across the table length for a cocktail napkin. ‘I mean tall in a good way, I mean’. He faltered slightly.
‘Thank you’, she replied. ‘I work hard at it’.
He looked at her.
“Work hard at what?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled.
‘At being tall’, she countered, reaching for her own napkin.
‘I work hard at being tall’.
He looked down at his plate and spent what felt to him to be an inordinate amount of time working out the patterns of food spread in front of him.
Dip, chips, mini-sandwiches, over priced water crackers; a glob of cheese spread at the plate’s edge. Looking up at her sheepishly, he tried again.
‘So, what do you do?’
She turned slightly to the left of him and glanced out over his shoulder at nothing. ‘I work at being tall’, she said. ‘I work very hard’.
It was the sort of conversation which at the root of it, lay far down the twisting rabbit trail of wanting to be anywhere else.
She stared out the large window at the edge of the snow covered balcony; the sloping yard sliding down to the edge of the grey crusted road edge. A lone bird swooped in the distance; buffeted against an icy wind.
It was the usual wintry day in January.
Perhaps today might be the day to learn to begin to spin sugar webs.
Standing resignedly at this rather vaguely appointed cocktail party, she decided it was time to leave.
She drifted quietly, web like…away from the table.
690 Saint Paul 